Cool Ray

If you read my last post, you might remember that my regular glasses were resting somewhere at the bottom of Santee Basin on the Severn River. That left me with one option: the prescription sunglasses my mother had dropped off so I could see.

Now, wearing sunglasses in uniform may not sound like a big deal. But at the Naval Academy in 1977, it absolutely was.

I was the only person in the Yard wearing them.

So there I was, chopping everywhere in Bancroft Hall in my necessary prescription sunglasses, very aware that I looked different, but also very aware that seeing where I was going seemed like a reasonable priority.

One day, though, my sunglasses didn’t just get noticed. They attracted some special attention.

I was chopping through another company area far from my own company space in Bancroft when I heard the dreaded words behind me:

“Plebe, HALT!”

Followed immediately by:

“Plebe, brace up!”

I snapped against the wall as two unfamiliar first-class midshipmen stepped over. Their tone, oddly enough, was calm, almost sweet.

“Midshipman Andrews,” one said, “I see you’re wearing sunglasses. You must think you’re cool. Are you cool?”

“No, sir!”

“What company are you from, Midshipman Andrews?”

“Alpha Company, 2nd Platoon, sir.”

“Well,” he continued, “we’re a very cool company. And you look cool. So wouldn’t you rather be in our cool company?”

“No, sir!”

They paused.

“Well, since you don’t want to be in our company,” one concluded, “then whenever you travel through our company area, you must stop chopping and walk with rhythm. Snap your fingers. Swing your arms. And for the entire time it takes you to get through our area you will say…”

“I’m cool, I’m Cool Ray man, I’m cool. I’m Cool Ray man.”

And just like that, I became Cool Ray.

Off I went, snapping my fingers, swinging my arms, and declaring my coolness while making my way across what, for me, became No Mary’s Land.

After that day, I adjusted my route. If I needed to get somewhere on that side of Bancroft Hall, I would happily chop up two flights of ladders and back down again to avoid that particular company area and the special attention of the two first-class midshipmen who had christened me.

Years later, at a reunion, the sunglasses came up in conversation.

One of my male classmates was reminiscing about Plebe Summer and began recalling how women “got away with so much.”

That caught me off guard.

“When did you ever see women get away with anything?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “there was this ratey girl who wore sunglasses in uniform, even in formation.”

I listened. Paused for a moment.

“You know,” I finally said, “maybe she had some medical issue.”

“No,” he replied confidently. “She was getting away with it.”

I didn’t pursue the conversation any further.

Some possibilities, it seemed, were not to be entertained.